Caught In The Act
by MusicWritesMyLife
Summary: He doesn't know quite how he managed it. Sneaking upstairs shouldn't be so easy but it seems with all the preparations for the upcoming dinner, minding the stairwells is of far less importance. Alternate scene from 2x03 where Sybil catches Tom placing his confession regarding the "assassination" of the general in her bedchamber. Written for the S/T valentines exchange.


**This was written for the Sybil/Tom Valentine's exchange on Tumblr. It was based on a prompt asking what might have happened if Sybil had come across Tom planting his confession prior to attempting to "assassinate" the general in 2x03. The plot bunny might have gone a little wild.**

* * *

He doesn't know quite how he managed it.

Sneaking upstairs shouldn't be so easy—Thomas has told him horror stories about footmen caught trying to sneak up for dalliances with guests over the years—but it seems with all the preparations for the upcoming dinner, minding the stairwells is of far less importance. Besides, none of the ladies are in their rooms, what with all the patients needing tending to, so even if he were to have gotten caught, he likely wouldn't have been in too much trouble.

Standing on outside the door to Lady Sybil's bedchamber, however, he can't help hesitating. This is Sybil's _room_. He's imagined himself standing on this threshold in a thousand dreams, only she's always waiting for him on the other side with that mischievous glint in her eyes he loves so well. To be sneaking in without her permission like some common voyeur seems so terribly wrong, and yet, he hasn't much other choice. He cannot leave without leaving her some explanation of his motives, in the hopes that she, at least, will understand why he must do this. He knows the others will think badly of him—they've never approved of his radical political ideologies—but he cannot bear to fall from her good graces, not when she has been so supportive of him and his cause.

Footsteps echo down the corridor and Tom finally musters the courage to slip inside. He only means to be a minute—place the note on the mantle where she is sure to see it and slip out again—but as the door clicks shut behind him he finds himself standing stock still, as if his feet have suddenly become part of the elegant Persian rug beneath them. He's never been inside a lady's bedchamber before, and even if he had, he's sure he would be equally as astounded. The room exudes Sybil, from the lavishly embroidered throw pillows on the bed to the evening gown haphazardly thrown across the chair—Sybil has taken advantage of the staff shortages to finally take care of her own housekeeping. A book lies open on the nightstand as if discarded in a moment of haste, and he notices with a tingle down his spine that it is a selection of works by James Connolly he recommended a few weeks past. The smell of her perfume clings to everything from the drapes to the wallpaper, conjuring memories of long, hot afternoons in the garage or stolen looks in the rear mirror of Lord Grantham's car.

The full realisation of where he is, standing in Lady Sybil's bedchamber, hits him with sudden, dizzying force. This is a place intimately acquainted with the woman who has stolen his heart and soul these past years. The mere thought of her sitting in front of the vanity, letting her hair down after a long evening of socialising, makes his head spin.

Tom swallows, trying to keep his mind on the sobering task at hand. What he is about to do will condemn his fantasies of Lady Sybil to be nothing more than that—while she might understand the motivations behind what he must do, she certainly won't agree with them; _that _much she has made painfully clear.

His legs feel like lead as he crosses the room to the mantle, pulling the offending note from his pocket. It's been burning a hole in his jacket ever since he slipped it there this morning, and it's with a heavy heart that he parts with it now. Once he leaves it here, there is no going back.

Tom has thought about abandoning his plan many times. Sitting quietly on the sidelines, keeping his head down and doing what is asked of him will allow him to stay here, fixing Lord Grantham's cars and waiting for those stolen moments when Sybil will find him. There's a part of him—largely comprised of his heart which rests in the possession of the youngest Crawley—that wants nothing more, but he can't. He's tired of bowing and scraping for a nation that has been nothing but oppressive to his people, and he won't sit here another day watching everyone hover over the brave men who've served their country overseas when his people are being killed in the streets without so much as a mention in the newspaper. Too much of his life he has spent being silent, but no more—Tom Branson is at last going to get his day.

"Tom? What on earth are you doing here?"

Tom freezes, note still clenched between his fingers. He's never put much stock in Providence, believing that men make their own choices, but as he turns to face an incredulous Sybil Crawley, trying his best to conceal the note from view, he wonders if this isn't Fate giving him another go.

"Nothing," he stammers, hoping his face is not as red as it feels. "That is—Daisy thought she might have left her apron here this morning when she was cleaning the fireplaces and I offered to look for it, seeing as they're so busy in the kitchens."

Sybil's eyebrows rise, and Tom realises his mistake before she opens her mouth. "Daisy hasn't cleaned the rooms in a year," she says, and he hopes he's not imagining the tiny hint of amusement in her voice. Deceit has never been his forte.

"I—er, yes, you're quite right. It must have been one of the other maids then. They're so many of them coming and going these days it's difficult to keep track."

Sybil lets out an exasperated sigh, hands on her hips. "I wish you'd just be honest with me, Tom. I know the maids didn't send you up here because I've told them not to bother cleaning the room anymore, and I know you're hiding something behind your back," she adds in the commanding tone she uses hone passing out orders to the other nurses. "What is it?"

Tom swallows, suddenly fascinated by the toes of his boots, which are much in need of polishing. Sybil wasn't supposed to know about any of this until afterward, when it was too late for anything to be done. If she reads the letter now—well, there's no way he'll be able to go along with any of it. She'll never allow it.

Sybil's face is impassive as she unfolds the piece of paper, leaving Tom with nothing but the view of his own handwriting spelling her name and the words _forgive me. _She reads it silently as he stands in judgement, trying to swallow the dread rising in his throat. The note wasn't meant to do any harm—just the opposite, in fact, if it was being read _after the fact._ Reading it now, without any idea of what he's planning to do…

"It's not what you think," he says defensively before she has the chance to finish. "You weren't meant to see it until after—"

"After what, exactly?" Sybil asks, folding the note with crisp, exacting movements. "After you've been hauled off to prison for assassinating a general?"

"Assassinating—" Any words that might have followed seem to have evaporated off the tip of his tongue. "You think I was going to _assassinate _the general? Christ, Sybil, I'm many things, but a murderer's not one of them. You of all people should know that!"

"Well, what am I supposed to think?" Sybil retorts. Two bright pink patches have sprouted on her cheeks and her eyes blaze with a spark he's only ever seen when she argues with her father. "You're going to walk in there and ask him to overlook your heart murmur so that you can publicly humiliate yourself in front of hundreds of people?"

"I was going to pour a tureen of slops on his head!" Tom shouts, paying no mind to any passersby that might over hear them. Getting caught in Lady Sybil's bedchamber is the least of his worries. "He'd need a good bath to get rid of the smell and his uniform would likely be ruined, but he'd not be harmed!"

For a moment they stand in silence, glaring at one another. Tom's heart hammers against his ribcage and the fire of a good fight sings in his veins. _This_ is what it feels like to have a cause. To fight for something he believes in.

Finally, Sybil lets out a long breath and sinks onto the bed, letting the note fall from her fingers. Tom watches the paper spiral to the floor, not daring to move.

"I'm sorry," she says slowly. "I shouldn't have shouted at you like that, or made accusations, but, really Tom, what were you thinking?"

"That I can't sit around and do nothing while my people are being senselessly slaughtered by the very gentlemen your father is entertaining this evening," he replies curtly.

"Oh, Tom."

When he looks up and meets Sybil's gaze, her eyes are soft and filled with compassion. His heart suddenly feels too big for his chest.

"I know you're upset about the situation in in Ireland. I am too, quite frankly; while I don't exactly agree with all the methods your people are taking to gain their independence, England's handling of the situation has been nothing short of appalling." She pauses, twisting her fingers—which, he's come to learn, means she's thinking of what to say next.

"I understand that you feel as though you need to take a stand and that it must be terrible for you to be here surrounded by the very people who are responsible for your suffering when you really wish to be there, but you must be careful how you go about it. If anyone else had found the note— Tom, the consequences could have been very serious!"

Tom's not sure he can believe what he's hearing. "You aren't angry with me?" he asks, disbelieving.

Sybil flashes a small smile. "Your fighting spirit is one of the things I admire most about you, Tom. I would just hate for anything to happen to you because of what you believe in." She smoothes her hands over her apron, suddenly nervous. "I'm sorry I haven't been supportive of your ideals. I do believe in them, and I should have told you so the other day when you told me about your cousin, but the truth is, I was too concerned about you being called up or being ill and then too relieved that you were going to stay that I didn't stop to see things from your point of view."

Tom opens his mouth to interject—he should be the one apologising for taking his frustration out on her—but Sybil continues, rising to her feet and pacing the room like a caged tiger.

"It's just, well, this is all still quite new to me, and sometimes I get so caught up in my opinions and my desire to be different that I forget what I'm actually fighting for. When you've lived your life a certain way for so long, it's hard to let go of things."

"I'm not asking you to give anything up for me," Tom says quietly. He wants to, more than anything he's ever wanted in his life, but he won't force her. He's known he loved her from the moment they met, but all he stands to lose is a job he has never particularly enjoyed. If his entire way of life were on the line, he might question his own feelings.

Sybil stops pacing. The look in her eyes in unreadable, but Tom feels the tiniest flutter of hope. "I know," she replies.

There are a hundred things Tom could say, and many more he wants to say, but can't. The words get lost in his throat, however, as the distance between them somehow vanishes, and Sybil's wide, dark eyes are entirely too close to his own…

"I am curious: how exactly did you plan on humiliating the general?" Sybil says suddenly, hurrying over to the vanity. Tom pretends to be fascinated with the rug, but he can see her reflection in the mirror, colour rising in her cheeks. She fiddles idly with a strand of pearls. "You can't very well walk up to the table during dinner, Carson would never let you into the room."

Tom tries to keep his eyes on the floor and not the tantalising curve of Sybil's back. "They're short staffed downstairs, what with Mr Laing not being able to wait tables, so I offered to give Carson a hand. It wouldn't be the first time I've served."

The corners of Sybil's mouth twitch and he can tell she's trying not to laugh. "While I admit the expression on the general's face would have been quite amusing, I can't say Papa would have been terribly pleased with it. Or Carson for that matter."

Tom smiles. "No, I don't expect they would have. And they weren't meant to be. It's hardly an act of rebellion if they're laughing."

"I suppose not," Sybil replies. She catches his eye in the mirror, and they both dissolve into laughter.

"Oh, Tom, imagine if you had!" Sybil gasps, making a valiant effort at composure. "Granny would never have let Papa hear the end of it."

"She'd tell him it's his just deserts for hiring a socialist," Tom wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes.

"What are you going to do now?" she asks, sobering suddenly.

Tom shrugs. "Serve, I suppose. They're still short-staffed and Carson can't manage it all by himself." His attempt at indifference can't quite mask the bitterness in his voice. Putting on the livery for a cause is one thing, but bowing and scraping for no reason is another matter all together.

Sybil must have noticed, because she sighs and says, "You've still time to decline, Tom. Tell Carson something has come up and you must take the car to Ripon. They'll make do without you."

He manages a rueful smile. "You know I couldn't do that, m'lady. I'm a terrible liar."

"You know, I think I might go down to the hospital early this evening. There's so much work to be done that I feel terribly guilty sitting through these fancy dinners when I ought to be doing my share," Sybil says, eyes flashing with that mischievous light he loves so well. "Mama won't be terribly pleased, but as long as Mrs Patmore sends some sandwiches, I'll be perfectly fine."

Tom isn't quite sure of the point she's trying to make until she asks him if it would a terrible inconvenience for him to take her.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't mind walking, but the supper hamper will be awfully heavy," she adds, grinning. "Besides, we need to go about planning your rebellion, Mr Branson."

Tom smiles. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

Years later, when they catch their daughter leaving a note on the kitchen table explaining that she's running away because she's going to beat Thomas Morton for calling her father a filthy common Socialist and they won't love her anymore afterwards, Sybil smiles at Tom over Saoirse's head and explains that they will always love her no matter what happens, though she should use her words rather than her fists to solve problems. Tom answering smile as he recounts the now-infamous story of his failed coup is just as bright.


End file.
